Prison, drugs, music, Kate Moss, Amy Winehouse, his Army major father who has disowned him... Two months in the life of Pete Doherty

The nine-bedroomed red-brick Georgian pile that Lord Cardigan leases to Pete Doherty is a few winding Wiltshire lanes out of Marlborough. Its large wooden gates are flung wide open. I gun my E-type Jaguar’s 4.2-litre engine onto the gravel drive and park behind another old Jag – a green Mark II, circa 1970. There’s a string of Union flags in the large ground-floor windows of the house.

I bang on the heavy door knocker. A tiny square attic window in the roof opens and the strains of Neil Young’s Heart Of Gold tumble out over the birdsong and bleating lambs in the field next door. A mop of tousled brown hair followed by two wide, round eyes peer out over the window sill. Then it bobs back in.

A minute later Doherty creaks open the old oak door and blinks in the mid-afternoon sunlight. He is dressed; a white shirt with tight black jeans. Close up, his wide eyes are clear and his skin looks remarkably unblemished, if waxy.

‘Hello?’ he says quizzically.

Remembering to call him Peter – he doesn’t much like being called Pete – I explain that after months of crossed wires attempting to finalise our interview and photoshoot, I have tired of the official channels (it has become painfully clear they aren’t much of a feature in Doherty’s world) and driven down from London to his home with a photographer, on the off-chance.

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I'm not really sure if I'm over Kate or not

The hired E-type was to make the right impression; Doherty has a thing about old Jags. And I have baubles: the sort of Dior Homme suit he likes, white dress shirts and a black scarf for the shoot. He can keep them afterwards. How about it? He cocks his head to one side and considers.

‘Well then, you’d better come in,’ he smiles.

In the large parquet-tiled hall there’s an old wooden globe that lies open, revealing a drinks cabinet. A guitar case is surrounded by a loose pile of various unmatched leather shoes.

Hanging on a dark wooden coat rack is the brass-buttoned scarlet Irish Guards jacket that Doherty wore when he was in the Libertines. To its left is a poster of Sid Vicious and next to that, behind cracked glass, a framed Babyshambles gold disc for 100,000 sales of their debut album Down In Albion.

Doherty has been here for eight months. Tall and gangly, he sways through the house to the drawing room and gives a commentary in a sing-song London drawl.

‘I moved out of London because I was on a probation order, which is like a suspended sentence conditional on drug testing, et cetera et cetera... and I was told I wasn’t allowed a London postcode.

'I was attending Clouds rehab clinic (in nearby Salisbury) and I thought I may as well live locally, so I moved to a little cottage in Marlborough. But seven people moved into the cottage with me so it wasn’t a viable option... I just needed a bit more peace and quiet... so I moved here.’

He waves by way of demonstration in the general direction of an antique desk, a small, dusty black piano and a bookcase beside the fireplace, on which is a biography of legendary QPR player Stan Bowles (Doherty regularly attends their home games), a book about one of his favourite TV sitcoms, Steptoe And Son, The Books Of Albion (a volume of Doherty’s handwritten diaries) and various classics. Beneath the bookcase a copy of Jean Cocteau’s Opium is perched on a chaise longue. On the wooden floor are some of his 13 cats and their litter trays and food bowls.

‘It’s all owned by a fella called Lord Cardigan, who is a member of the aristocracy. I haven’t actually met him yet, but there have been a few stern emails saying, “Can you get rid of the bonfires?” which we did. And, “Don’t let any journalists into the house!”’

He cackles hoarsely.

‘I have got a problem at the moment with the estate manager. He thinks I’m ruining the house. Well I’d just like to say to him, don’t believe the things that are being written.

'I love living here. It’s the first place I’ve ever been able to really call home. I get a funny feeling in my belly when I come back here.

'Recently, I’ve been going on little walks. I’ve sussed out a Doherty ramble. It takes in the canals of Hungerford and the SavernakeForest. It’s great.

'The other day I went to a little hamlet near here and there was an old Yamaha organ outside somebody’s house with a sign on it saying, “Please take – surplus to requirements”. I put it in the boot of the Jag and took it home and then this old lady turned up at my house and I thought, “Oh no, there’s been a mistake.” But all she said was, “Here you are, love, you forgot the stool.” So expect some strange bossa nova beats on the next album.’

Now we’re off again, past walls covered in poetry written in spidery ink and pawprints (he apparently dipped some of his cats’ paws in black paint one evening and walked them up the walls), down corridors and into a huge dark red room with highbeamed ceilings. It is empty except for a drum kit, some amps, a couple of guitars and a recent copy of The Sun opened on its showbiz page revealing yet another paparazzi-based story about him.

We then walk through another room entirely empty except for a few white canvases adorned with his whimsical, sketchy, unfinished paintings and collages featuring his own blood.

‘It’s a shame I can’t show you my most recent painting,’ he apologises.

‘I did it the day I thought I wasn’t going to be playing Glastonbury. It’s probably the best painting I’ve done but I gave it to the boss of my local taxi firm because I’d run up a £1,800 bill.

‘Anyway, you’ve come down here in a lovely car with some nice free clothes. I can’t really say no, can I?’

We wander back out of the drive and he admires the E-type.

‘Can I take it for a spin later?’ he asks.

I say, ‘Yes of course you can.’ I think I will never actually hand over the keys of a hired vintage car to Doherty and smile as he accelerates off into the distance.

Doherty says he wants to do the photoshoot first and suggests we do it in front of his green Morris Minor, ‘which I bought from a junk shop’. It lives on its own in a cavernous corrugated-iron barn. Then he goes off to have a bath to prepare.

He takes an age to re-emerge. I know he’s got a gig in Brixton tonight. On past experience, if we don’t get this done soon it’ll probably never happen.

Blake knows I'd kill myself for five grand

I poke my head over the banisters and see him outside his bedroom door, on which there is a notice warning, ‘Babyshambles Only Area – Do Not Enter Unless You Have A Pass’. He’s wearing a pair of white boxers and his trademark black trilby and is rooting around for socks.

Then I’m invited to join him on a farcical search through the downstairs rooms for ‘two shoes that match’. We eventually find a pair of black leather boots but agonisingly they both lack laces. We locate some suitable laces from another pair of shoes but the ends are frayed and it takes an eternity for the two of us to lace them.

Finally, gathering up his guitar and a large Union flag, I virtually frogmarch him out to the barn for the photoshoot.

He strums his guitar for the camera and sings Oasis and Babyshambles songs. Then a car crunches up outside the barn.

‘That’s my manager,’ whispers Doherty. He looks like a slightly scared and naughty schoolboy who is about to be caught yet again by Sir.

In fact, Andy Boyd is cordial and lets us finish the shoot. Doherty suggests that we do the interview after he has completed his soundcheck in Brixton.

We do indeed go on to do the interview, during which we cover prison, drugs, music, Kate Moss, Amy Winehouse, his Army major father who has disowned him... and Andy Boyd gives me a talk too, which is possibly as illuminating.

Doherty also does another, proper studio shoot, which gives us our cover. But it’s not that evening. We’re on Doherty time, so it happens 12 cancelled dates and more than two months later.

In the studio in north London, Doherty bounces off the walls like a pinball. He has the restless mania of a caged animal.

His hyperactivity is making me anxious. For one thing, I can’t believe he is actually here, having spent the past nine weeks of my life chasing him around Britain since we last met.

For another, every time I think we are going to begin, Doherty suddenly bounds up distractedly. He’s like an exuberant child, constantly on the move: one moment leafing through the stylists’ clothing racks, the next picking up a guitar and strumming tunes.

From his holdall he retrieves an ancient-looking packet of cigarettes called De Troupe.

‘Here. These were issued during the Second World War to French soldiers,’ he says, unwrapping them. ‘Have one.’

It transpires that between signing his new record deal that morning and coming to the studio, Doherty stopped off in Marylebone to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes – rummaging through bric-a-brac shops for bizarre trinkets such as ancient Union flags, neckerchiefs and these antique, filterless cigarettes.

‘From the moment I last saw you, everything went into freefall,’ he says.

He has had a temporary bust-up with his two managers, Boyd and Adrian Hunter.

‘Carnage has been the operative word. That said, I’m a man of my word. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.’

Few artists are more controversial and divide opinion more fiercely than Doherty, former lead singer of the Libertines, a shambolic yet melodic four-piece band he began with soulmate and muse Carl Barat in 2001.

Combining a willingness to play anywhere with a canny understanding of the internet as a marketing tool, Doherty and Barat wrote rousing tunes, performed blisteringly raucous live shows and were soon hailed as the saviours of British music.

Having seen their first album Up The Bracket go platinum, the Libertines embarked upon their first major tour in 2003, during which the naive and impressionable Doherty began dabbling with crack cocaine and heroin.

The following year, after various stays in rehab (which included a brief stint in a Thai monastery) and a month in Wandsworth prison for burgling Barat’s flat, Doherty’s spiralling addictions saw him sacked from the band just before the release of their second album, The Libertines.

His immediate response was to form Babyshambles, a four-piece that have enjoyed critical and commercial success with their first two albums and remain one of this country’s major live draws.

Perhaps as famous for his turbulent relationship with supermodel Kate Moss (whom he met when he played at her 31st birthday in January 2005) as he is for his music, Doherty is deified and demonised in equal measure.

He is the Byronic Romantic adored by his fans; the pioneer of the louche look of skinny jeans, jacket and tie with a jauntily placed pork-pie hat that is so common on Britain’s streets today; the recidivist drug addict who seems to be in court every other week. He only recently came out of prison for yet another drugs offence.

‘There was a really good thing that came from that,’ he says, reaching over and picking up my Biro, ‘just sitting down with a pen for a couple of hours a day and keeping a diary, doodling and writing lots of letters.

'I got quite a nice letter from Blake (Blake Fielder-Civil, Amy Winehouse’s husband, who is currently serving a 27-month prison sentence in Pentonville prison for attacking a pub landlord in 2006). I bumped into someone in the prison yard who said, “Blake’s not happy with you, son. He says he knows you’re after Amy and he is going to sort you out.”

'I wrote to him from my cell that night. I said, “Blake mate, I love the pair of you. I’ve got no interest in Amy like that and I hope you know that.”

'He wrote back: “Don’t listen to what anyone says. I know it’s not true and that you’d rather be banged up here so you could s*** me.”

'Oddly, since then I’ve heard that he’s offered people money to hurt me. I hope that’s just ex-cons selling stories. Blake should give me the money. He should know I’d kill myself for five grand.’

So what about his friendship with Winehouse?

A look of puzzlement crosses his strangely innocent features.

‘She’s an amazing character but I don’t quite understand her,’ he says, gazing into the distance.

‘I don’t really know how to say this. But I’m kind of in awe of her because I do believe she is an incredible talent who has come out of nowhere and like a lot of the greats she is irreplaceable so…’ He tails off.

‘We don’t want to lose her?’ I suggest.

‘Exactly,’ he nods. ‘I’d like to collaborate with her.

'But last time I was round there and we were jamming she said, “Come on then, play me some of your new ideas.” So I played her my best new riff and she said, ‘Well, you’re not inspired, are you?’ So she p***** on my bonfire a bit.

'Then she (Winehouse) showed me this new Fred Perry top that she’s going to give to Blake when he gets out of prison. It was quite depressing for me really. Because I was thinking, “Where’s my bird who wants to give me a Fred Perry when I get out of jail?”’

Pete’s most famous ‘bird’ was Kate Moss. Is he still in touch?

‘No. It’s over. But whether I’m over it or not I’m not really sure.

'It’s difficult talking about someone you love when you’ve split up with them because it’s painful to rake up all those old emotions again.

'Today I’ll look you in the eye and say I am over it. But if she were to walk in here now and say, “Oi knobhead, come on, let’s go,” I don’t really know what I’d do.’

He considers the scenario for a moment.

‘I’d probably go… but not with her though. I’d just go and cry somewhere. It’s over. It’s gone.’

The subject he’s most sensitive about is his drug-taking and the coverage it gets.

‘You can only be so thick-skinned. You can only pretend not to care for so long before you have to admit that you hate being made to look like an idiot. I hate seeing myself misquoted. I hate being linked romantically with girls I’ve been close to for years but never slept with. It’s just upsetting, isn’t it? My nan reads and believes these things. I say, “Hiya Nan, how are you getting on?” and she’ll say, “Are you all right? What about

that cat you injected with crack?”’

The son of a Catholic major in the British Army and a half-Jewish nurse, Doherty was born in March 1979 in Hexham, Northumberland, and spent a lonely, itinerant childhood growing up in various Army garrisons: Catterick, Dorset, Northern Ireland, Cyprus and Germany.

Despite the frequent changes of school, he got 11 GCSEs and four A levels. After school he lived in London with his grandmother, to whom he remains close.

His relationship with his parents has been fraught. In 2006, his mother, Jackie, wrote a book about her son’s drug use and how it has devastated her family. His father Patrick, a career soldier in the Royal Corps of Signals, has disowned him.

‘My dad does not have a son at the moment. I don’t know how else to say this, but I represent everything that he fought against in his life.’

Doherty may have looked saddened before, but now he looks crestfallen, bereft, close to tears.

‘Obviously, being a military man, drugs are a big no-no,’ he continues.

'My dad was like, if you’re going to do that, you’re on your own. He was a major in the Army but he rose up all the way from being a private and I was made very conscious of that, how lucky I was not to have grown up in the environment he grew up in and how hard he’d worked.

'Really all I wanted was to be in the environment that he grew up in. All I wanted was an identity.’

Doherty pauses to light another cigarette.

‘He sees me as being wasteful, ill-disciplined, a liar.

'He’s my father but what I’m doing here is describing how much distaste he has for how I’ve lived my life and conducted myself over the last couple of years.

'Of course I hope for a reconciliation. We briefly had one last year when I was in Clouds and he came down for some family therapy.’

He pauses and gathers himself for a moment before fixing me with doleful eyes.

‘About 16 months ago an old-age pensioner, a war hero, got stabbed to death for his pension by a heroin addict.

'My dad basically explained to me then how in his eyes I’m part of that process. That’s what I’m part of to him… that’s the world I’m involved in, and it’s hard to bear actually.’

Doherty’s son by Lisa Moorish (also the mother of Liam Gallagher’s child) is five-year-old Astile.

‘For quite a while I didn’t think it would be right to describe myself as a father. I don’t think I was really there for my son and that was a conscious decision on my part because of the way I was.

'Because of the state I was in, it just wasn’t right to be around him.

‘Recently, though, he’s been coming to Wiltshire a lot and he and his mum are moving around the corner from me soon.

'We’ve been spending a lot of time together and he’s a beautiful little boy. I took him to Hamleys for his fifth birthday last week. I said, “Look son, you can have whatever you want – nothing is too expensive.”

'It was sweet because all he wanted was a £4.99 Doctor Who box set that had Kylie Minogue in it. He was fascinated by Kylie’s boots. I thought that showed encouraging early signs of heterosexuality.’

In the months following his split from Moss, it seems that Doherty has pulled himself together.

Gone are the endless no-shows or shambolic performances (the mantle seemingly having been taken up by his friend Amy Winehouse) and in their place are acclaimed performances such as his recent solo concerts at Glastonbury and the Albert Hall.

But nothing with Doherty is as straightforward as it seems. He claims to have nearly missed the Glastonbury gig.

‘I’d just fallen out with my managers, so I decided to stay home and paint instead.

'In the end, Jake Fior, my producer, turned up at my house and said, “What the hell are you doing? If you don’t do this gig it’s all going t*** up.” He threw a load of clothes at me, dragged me to his car, drove me to Glastonbury and made me do it. And sometimes you need that.’

He says he is plagued by stage fright.

‘I remember when the judge sent me down to the Scrubs, the only positive thing that came out of it was that I didn’t have to play the Albert Hall.’ (He was released from Wormwood Scrubs this May after serving 29 days of a 14-week sentence for breaching probation, havingbeen given a suspended sentence in October last year for drug and driving offences. The Albert Hall concert was cancelled, then rescheduled.)

He stops to light yet anothercigarette and asks for a large rum and Coke.

‘There’s a moment just before you get sentenced when you know whether you’re going to get guilty or not guilty because the court security guard either locks the stand box or he doesn’t.

'Anyway, the box got locked, and I knew that the gig wasn’t going to happen.

‘I’m always nervous before playing a gig to tell you the truth. It’s what nearly did me in when I was with the Libertines. I just couldn’t handle it. Once the gig is kicking off then you know why you go through that weird wall-climbing – terror, basically.

'There’s a quote from Liam Gallagher when he was asked to comment on Kurt Cobain’s death. He said, “He was a sad b****** who couldn’t handle the fame.” And that’s true of some people who are thrust into this world. It does **** your head up.

'And what was supposed to be the perfect life, the dream life – playing music for a living – turns into a living nightmare.

‘When I came out of the Scrubs what particularly worried me was forgetting the chords, because I hadn’t played my guitar for a month. I found it very frustrating not having my guitar with me because I had all these tunes in my head. (Doherty carries his guitar and his laptop with him everywhere.)

'There was one tune in particular going round and round my head, which the bloke in the next-door cell used to sing. It was (he sings) “I’m going home on Mon-day.” But he wasn’t. He had a 20-year sentence, so he wasn’t going home at all.’

I don’t know why I was surprised to learn that Doherty is an active ambassador for the Teenage Cancer Trust. He recently went to the funeral of 16-year-old cancer victim Daniel Squires – a fan of his – and played at the wake in Jarrow, Tyne and Wear.

Doherty looks visibly saddened.

‘The last time we spoke he phoned me from his local pub, where they ended up having the wake. I just thought that if he could have seen me in there playing songs to all his mates and his family he would be looking down and smiling.’

This June three of Doherty’s closest friends ended up in hospital as a result of substance abuse (Amy Winehousewith emphysema allegedly as a result of smoking crack, Carl Barat with pancreatitis caused by heavy drinking, and Doherty’s songwriting partner Mick Whitnall, having overdosed on heroin).

Those around him say his friend’s recent overdose served as a wake-up call for Doherty and may well have been the catalyst for him to address his own drug issues. Yet he is cagey about this.

Despite his lively entrance to our meeting, throughout the afternoon he is completely coherent and exhibits none of the classic signs of being intoxicated: ‘I’m currently surrounded by people who just won’t tolerate me doing drugs, which is a good thing for me. I’ll be straight with you: there’s a girl I’m quite interested in at the moment – I won’t mention her name – but I can’t do drugs when I’m around her. And I’m spending more and more time with her.’

When I push him further he says, ‘I’ve got no choice. I’m potless at the moment.’

Doherty has a bizarre attitude to money. He frequently complains of being broke, but there are frequent stories of him giving away cash to fans, friends and homeless people. ‘I’ve recently helped a couple of different people out with rent arrears when I’ve got rent arrears of my own to pay. It’s a bit silly, I’ve got to rein it in.’

I mention a recent Live interview, in which his former bandmate Carl Barat reached out to him, saying, ‘I’d like to sit down with Peter and have a normal conversation and not talk with him about the Libertines and all the messy stuff.’

Doherty says, ‘Absolutely – a lot of the time that was the problem. Because we never got round to talking things through. We never got round to saying…’

He checks and issues a big sigh.

‘Basically, too many other people made important decisions for us and we just wrote songs and worried about clothes and girls. In the early days he came round once with this girl who had convinced him that I was just a weirdo and that we had an unhealthy relationship. He sat me down and said, “Maybe we shouldn’t see so much of each other? Maybe we should knock the band on the head? It’s not really going anywhere, is it?”

‘I was desperate for us to stick together and see it through because I never stopped believing. When we got signed, Carl was shocked. I had prepared myself and had been reading the NME since I was 16. Carl wasn’t like that.’

Though Doherty may have wished for fame and found it, his troubles have stemmed from struggling to cope with it; stars often claim it is a lonely experience.

‘Oh yes. But I think I was a very lonely person growing up, so I’m probably less lonely now than I was.’

I point out to him that, having tracked his dizzying progress over the past two months, it seems that he’s still constantly on the move. I can only assume that he has an attention deficit disorder.

‘No, I don’t think I’ve got that, or in fact any disorders.

'My idea of paradise is that period just before the sun rises and I’m at home painting or writing songs and everything is flowing. I pray that the sun won’t rise so I can paint and write for ever. That’s my ideal time.

'I love being at home in a creative space, with maybe just one of my little kittens bouncing around for company.’

WAITING FOR DOHERTY - A DIARY

It took Piers Hernu two months to complete his Live interview with Pete Doherty. He first met him in May at Doherty’s home in Wiltshire. His attempts to finish the job amid the mayhem of the star’s schedule say as much about Doherty as the interview itself…

Friday May 30

Pete Doherty leaves the rented house where we first met for typically raucous Babyshambles gig in south London. Am supposed to finish interview afterwards and am on guest list. On stage, he sports the Dior suit, white shirt and black scarf I gave him earlier. Gig ends with near riot as bouncers clamber on stage and hurl overexuberant fans back into the audience. PD drops his guitar, wades in to help his predominantly teenage followers. Fists fly. Backstage, meet an old friend called Ronnie who now lives in one of PD’s spare rooms in Wiltshire. Ronnie tells PD I can be trusted.

Sunday June 1

Ronnie tells me PD still willing to do the interview. Suggests we join him in Wiltshire next day.

Monday June 2

Ronnie and I return to PD’s house. Are told he will join us later. No television, so we sit in the gloom drinking red wine from chipped teacups. Darkness descends – not many of PD’s light bulbs work. After multiple phone calls we learn he is staying in London and on his way to see a sculptor who wants to make a cast of PD being crucified on a cross adorned with PD’s newspaper headlines. Retire to PD’s bedroom – dark red, little decoration, no furniture except white wardrobe, bedside table and white bed complete with a contour-hugging foam mattress. The floors are something of a mess: cigarette packets, ashtrays, CDs, socks, Rizla packets and suspicious-looking cigarette butts. No sign of any other drug paraphernalia.

Tuesday June 3

10am: PD arrives but is too tired to do the interview today. Is hunched, pale and drawn, a shadow of the person he was four days previously. Nods at me, shrugs apologetically and trudges inside.

Sunday June 8

PD tells Ronnie he wants to drop in on Amy Winehouse. Ronnie is also a friend of Winehouse’s and goes to her flat. Paparazzi lying in wait. She tells Ronnie she does not want a photograph of Doherty and her to appear in the papers: suggests we go to the fancy- dress shop in Camden to rent her a gorilla suit. Ronnie and I race to shop but it’s shut. Paparazzi will have to wait for picture of a gorilla in high heels tottering out of Winehouse’s flat with a fag hanging out of its mouth.

Thursday June 12

At lunchtime Ronnie hears that PD wants a copy-approval contract as precondition for doing the interview. I refuse. Various calls are exchanged with him right up until 2am, when again he recedes into the fog.

Wednesday June 18

Wake up to internet reports that last night PD did solo show in Brixton – played for four hours till 3am when only 17 fans left. Clear that Doherty has extraordinary stamina and is completely unpredictable. At 1.30am during break he called Ronnie and suggested we do the interview in Brixton before tomorrow’s gig. Amy Winehouse has been rushed to hospital – diagnosed with emphysema.

Friday June 20

Thursday’s interview failed to happen as PD disappeared – same story today. Had suggested we go to Wiltshire to do it but he couldn’t contacted.

Tuesday June 24

PD meets Ronnie – is twitchy after a newspaper reported a fictional suicide pact among his entourage.

Monday July 21

Thursday July 24

Boyd and I shake hands over a pint. He agrees to try and pin PD down. I am to await his call…

HIS MANAGER SAYS...

Andy Boyd talks for the first time about what it’s like to be Pete Doherty’s manager…

What is your policy on drugs?

I don’t judge Peter for taking drugs. I know it’s illegal but I’m not a policeman or a judge. Throughout, it has been my 100 per cent aim to curb Peter’s worst drug excesses. I’ve taken him to rehab at least four times and it has been disappointing that it hasn’t worked. But I’m not a counsellor or a psychotherapist. Peter doesn’t do drugs to hide any inner turmoil. He does them because he enjoys them and at the moment I don’t think that he is ready to stop doing them. He is still quite a young man at 29.

With Pete and drugs, is it a question of on and off and on again?

No, it’s on and on and on (he laughs). The only time I can be sure he’s not doing heroin or crack is when he’s in rehab or prison or asleep.

When was he last off heroin?

Apart from prison, it was this time last year, when he had an implant fitted, which blocks the body’s opiate receptors. They last for three to six months and it does stop him doing it. You notice a difference – but the problem is that sometimes when drug addicts get off one drug they replace it with another.

Have you ever been seriously worried about his health?

I’ve seen him stay up for ten consecutive days without sleep. They say on the seventh day your heart gives out and you die. Not Peter. He slept for 48 hours solid after that. Sometimes when he’s taken heroin he’s slumped over and I’m worried that he’s taken too much. You’re only ever a whisker away from death.

Why don’t you tell him that you won’t tolerate him doing it around you?

I wouldn’t be able to manage him. He would never be around me.

What do you think of Peter?

It’s too early to say if he’s a genius but I think he is the greatest songwriter of his generation and it’s a travesty he’s not known for that.